She would be an abstract painter and sculptor
cooped up in her cabin in the mountains
busy painting the next curve of the horizon
her technique impeccable
her medium as illusive as her presence
her work, a series of happy accidents,
would have the signature
in the middle top
it would read
this
her sculpting a paradox in motion
of mass, made of weightlessness,
a happenstance of frequencies and energies
in a vast void that dances
crafting a concrete a work as thoughts from electricity
as strong as pain, love, hate, suffering, peace, poetry from waves
she would be the most detailed artist
never leaving a detail unkempt or loose
every stroke, every rough and smooth surface would be laid by connexion
and every negative space on the canvas would have it’s very own life
without which the rest of the painting wouldn’t be
her fine lines would be finer still
never succumbing to peeping microscopes
never making it clear
that which separates the mundane from the extraordinary
the only thing predictable about her work would be her unpredictability
just when we think we’ve uncovered her identity, her style, her influence, her inspiration
first, the earth was the center, then the sun was, then the galaxy was, until the center had no meaning
she has a way of cutting right to the core of our last thread in our attempts at coming up for air
she just dances her rhythm and tends to her garden
painting on and sculpting on
never needing inspiration
her creativity as natural as birth and death
her art would be unsettling
it would be captivating
it would be everything
it would suffocate you with air
and wrestle you
just out of reach
never to be known
it will not give you ground to rest your feet
nor lay your bed to lay your tired head
no
her art would keep you up all your life
